


Reciprocity

by AceQueenKing



Category: Chicago (2002)
Genre: 1920s, Chicago Gay Culture, F/F, Period-Typical Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 07:30:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9711119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceQueenKing/pseuds/AceQueenKing
Summary: Mama goes to the Plantation Cafe and is surprised when one of the performers sashays back into her life.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xenoglossy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xenoglossy/gifts).



In the end, she always wished well for the girls. 

Not that she got it; most of the girls in the cell block were doomed. She'd seen more than one of her lovers hung, but she'd been able to shake it. Mama dealt in promises, but never sureties. She held women in their last weeks of life, comforted them, enjoyed the last, desperate licks of their tongues as they clung to life. It was not a bad system, reciprocity; she gave them comfort, they got her off. Black lady in Chicago couldn't ask for much more, right?

She kept a low profile outside of the prison, too well aware of the differences that would turn society on her. Society was a pack of wolves, she'd learned that much in the kingdom of the county clink, too willing to throw away anyone who was the lest bit different: the eye-tays, the pols, the blacks; didn't matter what you were, but if you weren't a white, Anglo-saxon man they were willing to throw you out. And she knew that, and so she stayed in the lines they'd drawn for her: a prison warden, obsequious, didn't ask questions of anyone but her girls. When the big man came, it was all yes'sir and no'sir; once the white man was gone, they were free to be girls. 

Well, as free as prisoners get. Mama Morton was aware that she too, was a sort of prisoner. Sure she didn't sleep at the prison, but her prospects were limited. It was something she knew, had always known, and it was better to be queen of a dirt castle than a maid on Skyrow. You got the power, you kept it; it didn't matter how little her power affected the outside world. Mama still got hers. The girls got theirs. It was a clean, elegant solution to the problems that haunted all girls. 

But when she left the prison every night, she was well aware she was goin' home to an empty bed, and always would. The gals at the clink were nice and all, but Mama Morton didn't bother to play at that forever bullshit. It wasn't something that would be allowed, not for two gals, especially not two black gals. Shit, she couldn't even live with a man without a better chance of one of 'em being lynched if they stepped up to the wrong side of town. She'd laid that out as one of her ground rules, one of the things the girls had to promise before any favors could be exchanged—what was done at the prison, stayed there. There was only one gal she'd considered breaking' that for—well, it hadn't mattered anyway. Foxy V never stayed long, and it was a good thing she didn't, since the cameras were always on her. 

Mama still missed her anyway.

Mama, most nights, went straight home to the south side. She made her bed, curled up in it, put on the radio, and read a little somethin' somethin'; maybe, if she was lucky, she'd drop by the general store on the way home, see if they had a new dime store novel in. She liked those, and it wasn't too hard to imagine that Mr. Spade could be Mrs. Spade. On her more daring nights, she used t'go down to Towertown. Towertown was the place for people like her, but, well—she'd seen what had happened to Henry Gerber and his Society for Human Rights. She wasn't gonna get crated up like that, and so she generally kept her distance, tried to remain plausible in her deniabilities, as she'd overheard Mr. Flynn say. 

But she couldn't help visiting sometimes. Tonight was going to be one of those times; it was summer, just barely, but already it was hot in the city, and she could feel the sweat clinging to her uniform as she made her way near-south, to the lodging on the top of the south side. She changed into a dress, then took off toward the Plantation Cafe. She'd have liked to live on the north side, but there wasn't a lot of housing for coloreds, and she never trusted living in a neighborhood where she was a minority. She'd read the list of lynchings the Trib put out. 

Luckily enough, the Plantation Cafe could provide for people of her kind. The place was low-key, next to an ice cream parlor, even; it hid underground, like she did. But the cabarets were swingin', and it wasn't just the music that was hot. She walked down 35th with a swing in her step; she couldn't help it. She leaned against the counter, winked and ordered a grasshopper, and watched the show.

It was ladies night tonight, but the current act was a couple gals in drag. She recognized them immediately, which surprised her; she didn't think they'd be playing so low a venue, but there there were, what could only be Roxy and Velma. She'd recognize them both anywhere, but especially ole Foxy V—those eyes, brown, bright, and particularly arresting. Unlike Roxie, who barely strapped down her breasts and kept her platinum curls and red lips visible, Velma had bothered to try to pass. She'd kept the make-up natural, taped down them titties and picked trousers that emphasized her thin hips. She'd even taken the trouble of putting a thin mustache on with her kohl. She raised a glass toward them as they danced, and Velma cocked one small eyebrow toward her.

She winked; she didn't fear giving another girl the eye here, in a place where Ma Rainey was allowed to be played. Velma's cupid-bow lips pursed into a smirk, and Mama watched her move, spell bound by the litheness of Velma's body. She’d always known Velma was a hot-shot, born for better things than the cell block, but watching her hips move and gyrate—one turn, then two, three, four, five; splits, back-flips, flip-flops; and, of course, the most daring move in her arsenal: the spread-eagle. 

Nobody hit the ground like Velma. 

Mama's appetite well and truly whetted, she watched the whole show, eyes on Velma the whole time. She was a pro; two hours in a club that catered to a very certain clientele, and Velma hadn't cracked yet. She led every dance with Roxie, never faltering. Not even when the kid stepped on her shoes.

Velma left the stage first at the end of the show, abruptly. Roxie stayed up for several minutes, doing a brief and impromptu Q'n'A with some T'n'A (her shirt had come mostly undone; mama could see the lingerie underneath, and she was fairly certain it was done on purpose). She didn't pay much attention to Roxie though, merely moving aside to allow Velma to sit at the bar with her.

"Gin'n'tonic," Velma muttered, her eyes flitting across Mama's face, watchin' her. She pulled a wallet out of the pocket on the men's trousers she wore, but Mama shook her head.

"Actually, 's on me," she said. Velma raised one perfectly thin brow, before pulling a couple smokes out of her pocket and wordlessly offering one to mama. 

"Thanks," she said. "Didn't think you'd be spending time out here. Not enough dank and desperation to be your scene, Mama."

"Mm," she said. "Didn't think you'd be into drag, foxy." She reached out and lit the cigarette, sparking it. 

"Touche," Velma said. "What'd you think of the act?"

"It was nice, but..." She cocked her head. "The spread-eagle lacks a little something when you can't show off your big finish."

"Hm." Velma's eyes flashed. Her face was neutral, but Mama knew she was already planning on changing her outfit to correct this flaw. "Noted. Any other criticisms?" 

"Your partner can't dance for shit." At this, Velma laughed; not a short, polite laugh, but a rather loud guffaw. Roxie looked up a moment, an almost comically pouty expression on her face, but then another woman leaned toward her, asking her a question. Roxie leaned back toward her, flattered. 

"So why are you performing in this place? You're the queen of the show-lights, ain't ya? Heard you guys got a marquee up on State St."

"Novelty's fleeting, and a girl's gotta eat." Velma shrugged. "And you're wrong—by the way. I'm not Roxie. I always prefer the dark over the light." Velma flicked a knowing smile over at Mama, who chuckled and sipped her drink. The way Velma looked at her wasn't lost on her. She'd had good memories of Velma; she'd been a better girl than most. 

"You like it dark, huh?" She says, one finger curled around her glass, and debated what to do next. 

"Oh yeah. Chocolate, coffee; everything's better when it's darker." Velma shot her a grin, carnal and wide. That wasn't subtle; nor was the way Velma ran the tip of her tongue across her glass. Mama's hand tightened on her own.

It wouldn't be right—in certain places—to be seen with a girl, let alone a white girl. But right now, Velma wasn't a girl, and it was late enough that maybe they wouldn't get hassled and maybe in the shadows they might blend together to the right shade. 

"C'mon mama." Velma said, in a low whisper. "I know a joint where the gin is cold, and the piano is hot. And ain't nobody gonna look at us sideways." 

"Alright," she said, a bit tentative as she reached for Velma's hand. She'd been the warden the last time they'd hooked up; she'd been the one calling the shots.

Now -- well, she wouldn't be the warden again until morning. And she did like jazz.

"Lead the way, Mister," she said, and Velma nodded, winked toward Roxie, and sashayed back into her life.

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired by your prompt about these two meeting post-prison! I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> A lot of the references in this are period references:
> 
> Towertown - Chicago's first bohemian area, most well known for its nightlife. It had a large congregation of gay and lesbian residences and clubs, the most famous of which being the Dill Pickle club. Its downfall would come in the 1930s, when the economic situation forced many residents to abandon it.
> 
> Henry Gerber - Organizer of Chicago (and the nation's!) first organization to protect gay rights and the creator of the first known American gay-interest publication, Friendship and Freedom. Ultimately his organization crumbled when Gerber was tried three times due to charges against him for this "degeneracy"; he also lost his job and his savings. 
> 
> Plantation Cafe - a caberet on the south side that served both white and black audiences, with gay and lesbians serving as both entertainers and customers. Drag balls were huge on the south side at the time, so I put Velma and Roxie into drag, as I figured they'd ride the trends. 
> 
> (Chicago) Trib(une)'s list of lynchings - The Trib (which still exists today!) documented lynchings across the US from the late 1800s onward annually. 
> 
> Ma Rainey - blues singer, played in Chicago in the twenties who hinted many times into her preference for women in her lyrics.


End file.
